Iris and the Open Armchair

Iris sits alone in the old fauteuil and follows a carved leaf along its exposed wooden arm. The upholstery gives beneath her; the frame stays firm. Under the arm, her fingers find nothing but air.

That opening is the useful distinction: a bergère fills in the sides; a fauteuil leaves room. Furniture, apparently, can have excellent manners without saying a word.

She lets her hand rest in the gap, then draws it back to the polished wood. Once, chairs like this gathered into the talking circles of French salons. For now, there is only an empty second seat, a little too far away.

Iris shifts forward and pulls her chair closer. The feet make a brief, undignified complaint.

She angles the two seats so neither faces the other like an examination.

There. No conversation yet, but a better place for one to begin.